Skin Game
by Dandelion's Lollipop
Summary: Skin Game immediately follows the events of "Freak Nation", the final episode of season two. SG focuses on a killer terrorizing the streets of Seattle and the growing suspicion and evidence that the killer could be transgenic. As the killings escalate, the U.S. Army and National Guard prepare themselves for an invasion of Terminal City. Buy the book. Max Allan Collins is the author
1. Chapter one: Imager is everything

Here we have the Max Allan Collins Skin Game book. If you can buy it and support the author.

None of these characters or stories belong to me and I strongly recommend that you buy the book.

Warning: possible fragments that can affect the sensitivity of the reader. Read at your own risk.

XX-XX-XX

**Chapter One: Imager is everything**

**Sector three, 11:00 P.M.**

**Tuesday, march 2, 2021**

Like a relentless boxer, rain beat down on the city, first jabbing with sharp needles, then smacking Seattle with huge fat drops that hit like haymakers, the barrage punctuated by the ominous rumble of thunder and the eerie flash of lightning.

An unmarked black car drew to a stop in a rat-infested Sector Three alley, the rain rattling the metal roof like machine-gun fire. Two men in dark suits climbed out, to be instantly drenched, though neither seemed to notice. Each wore a radio earplug with a short microphone bent toward his mouth.

Sage Thompson - the man who'd emerged from the passenger's side - was relieved that the headsets, at least, seemed to be waterproof. In the coat pockets, each man carried one of the new portable thermal imagers that, just this week, had become standard equipment. Thompson - barely six feet, almost skinny at 180 pounds - wondered if water-tightness was among the gizmo's various high-tech bells and whistles.

Water sluiced down the alley in a torrent that seemed to express the sky's anger, eventually bubbling over the edge of a rusty grate maybe ten yards in front of them. Thompson was force to jump the stream and his feet nearly slid out from under him as he landed and bumped into a triangle of garbage cans, sending them crashing into each other, creating a din that rivaled the storm's, his hands flying wide to help maintain his balance. Then his hands dropped back to his sides, the one holding his flashlight clanging off the imager in his coat pocket, the other moving to make sure his pistol was still secure in its holster on his belt.

The hefty man who'd been driving - Cal Hankins - shone his flashlight in Thompson's face, huffed once, and eased around a dumpster that looked like it hadn't been emptied since before the Pulse. Moving slowly ahead, their flashlights sweeping back and forth over the brick hulk in front of them, the two men finally halted in front of what had once been a mullioned window.

The interior of the six-story brick building - an abandoned warehouse, Thompson surmised - seemed a black hole waiting to devour them without so much as a belch. Next to Thompson, his partner Hankins swept a flashlight through one of the broken panes, painting the rainy night with slow, even strokes. Darkness surrendered only brief glimpses of the huge first-floor room as it swallowed up the light.

"You sure this is the right place?" Hankins asked gruffly.

There was no fear in the man's voice - Thompson sensed only that his partner didn't want his time wasted. At forty, bucket-headed Hankins - the senior partner of the duo - wore his blondish hair in a short brush cut that revealed only a wisp or two of gray. His head rested squarely on his shoulders, without apparent benefit of a neck, and he stood nearly six-three, weighing in (Thompson estimated) at over 230. But the man wasn't merely fat - there was enough gristle and muscle and bone in there to make Hankins formidable.

Still, Thompson knew their boss - that nasty company man, Ames White, a conscienceless yuppie prick if there ever was one - had been all over Hankins about his weight and rode the older guy mercilessly about it. Though he knew better than to ever say it out loud, Thompson considered White the worst boss in his experience - which was saying something.

White was smart, no doubting that, but he had sarcastic tongue and whiplash temper that Thompson had witnessed enough times to know he should keep his mouth shut and his head low.

"This is the right place, all right" Thompson said, raising his voice over the battering rain. "Dispatch said the thermal imager team picked up a transgenic in the market in Sector Four."

"This is Sector Three."

"Yeah - they followed him here before they lost him."

Hankins shook his head in disgust. "Then why the fuck ain't _they _lookin' for him, then? What makes us the clean-up crew for their sorry asses?"

These questions were rhetorical, Thompson knew, though they did have answers, the same answer if fact: Ames White.

And Hankins spent much of his time bitching about White, behind the boss's back, od course. But they both knew it was only a matter of time before White found a way to get rid of Hankins…

… and then Thompson would have to break in a new partner, possibly one even younger than himself. Then he would be the old-timer. The thought made him cringe.

Not exactly a kid at twenty-seven, Thompson was the antithesis of Hankins: the younger man seemed like a longneck bottle standing next to the pop-top beer can that was his partner. Married to his college sweetheart, Melanie, and with a new baby daughter, Thompson was the antithesis of Hankins in terms of home life, as well: the gristled bulldog had been divorced twice and had three or four kids he never saw and didn't really seem to give a damn about.

This was a partnership made not in Heaven but in Ames White's twisted idea of the right thing to do; and Thompson still hadn't figured out if being partnered with Hankins was a reward - setting him up to step into the older man's shoes - or a punishment - White saddling him with a complainer.

Thompson - in keeping a low profile and, frankly, kissing White's ass - sometimes wondered if their sick, slick boss didn't see through his obsequiousness into the contempt he truly felt.

Hankins took a few steps to the right, Thompson on his heels. Withdrawing the imager from his pocket, Hankins squeezed the trigger and methodically scanned the area around them for the transgenic - nothing.

The new thermal imagers looked like smaller versions of the pre-Pulse radar guns that Thompson had read about un his online history studies. The biggest difference was that instead of having red LED numbers that showed speed, the ass-end readout area of the imagers contained a tiny monitor that showed infrared pictures of any heat source the front end was pointed at. The two men were looking for something with a core temperature of 101.6, the average temperature of transgenics - three degrees higher than humans.

"Fuck it," Hankins sighed, rain streaking down his face like heat-wave perspiration. "Looks like we're going to have to go inside."

"Looks like," Thompson said with a nod.

"We'll split up," Hankins announced.

"Makes us both more vulnerable."

Hankins kissed the air obnoxiously. "You're so sensitive, so vulnerable, even _with_ papa bear around."

"Cut it out, man."

Hankins grunted another, deeper sigh. "Sooner we get done with this thankless-ass job, sooner we can get away from this fuckin' monsoon."

"You're right," Thompson admitted, his voice calm even though his guts now seemed to be swimming upstream toward his mouth.

It wasn't that Thompson was a coward. He'd seen action before, plenty of it - even for the post-Pulse world, Seattle was a tough town, and for cops and anybody working security, it was a higher risk job than steeplejack - and he handled the fear and stress just fine. What bothered him was, he didn't think either he or even the rugged Hankins could handle a pissed-off transgenic alone. They weren't human, those transgenics - they were monsters, really.

And Sage Thompson had seen monster movies before - he knew what happened when people split up in such circumstances.

He could tell himself that this was reality, not fantasy; but Seattle in the last few years had turned into a place more ghastly than the imagination of any mere writer or filmmaker could conjure.

Hankins said, "When we find the stairs, I'll head up and start down. You begin down here and work your way up. We'll meet in the middle, agree we didn't find anything, and haul our soggy asses out of here."

"It's a plan," Thompson said with a shrug.

Thompson slipped the imager back in to his coat pocket, wiped the rain from his face - a fruitless gesture - and took a couple more steps forward.

The city was the reluctant home to a ton of these shabby old buildings, and they were all around the Emerald City, the structural equivalent of the homeless. Back when the buildings had been constructed in the 1940s and 1950s, they mostly housed factories that built things from scratch, packed them up and shipped them off to the four corners of the world.

But as time went on and the economy eroded around the turn of the century - only to take the devastating hit of the Pulse - many of the buildings stood abandoned, with some then used as warehouse space for other businesses. Each crumbling structure was different, depending on how it had been cannibalized. Thompson knew he might find a floor that was still all offices or one where all the office walls had been demolished to allow for the stacking of larger objects - there was just no way of knowing what lay ahead.

With half a head-turn, Hankins asked, "Ready?"

"Ready," Thompson said, trying to keep a note of confidence in his voice.

Hankins turned all the way now, shined the light in his face yet again. "You okay, kiddo?"

"Yeah."

"You sure?"

"Just get the damn light out of my face."

Grinning, Hankins aimed the flash back into the building. "Yeah, you're okay."

They were stopped outside a broken door, a heavy number that would have made quite a barrier if it had been locked rather than half hanging off its hinges. Both men pulled out their Glock nines and Thompson chambered a round. Hankins, Thompson knew, already had one in the pipe… and most likely already had the safety off as well.

Hankins stepped through the door and Thompson watched the older man seeing his weapon from side to side, the hand holding the flashlight following suit.

Thompson stepped through the door behind his partner, his arms locked together in the same fashion, his pistol and flashlight simultaneously sweeping the room. Struggling to keep his breathing under control, he was thankful to at least be out of the rain. He could hear it banging on the roof far above him and on the remaining windows on this floor. Carefully, he tuned that out and listened closely for other sounds.

Moving off to the right now, putting himself out in front, Thompson heard Hankins' raspy breathing and suddenly knew that, for all his bluster, his partner fought the same nervousness that wanted to paralyze him. To their left something metallic rattled, and they both swung around, their light stopping briefly on a rattling soda can, then moving on, both beams settling on a huge brown rat. The rodent froze, but its black eyes were not the least bit intimidated by the lights.

"S'pose that sucker's transgenic?" asked Hankins archly.

Thompson might have laughed - out of nervousness - but his throat felt too dry to pull it off. Letting out a long breath, he went back to checking out the room.

He moved slowly forward, allowing the distance between himself and Hankins to grow, but stayed close enough to cover his partner should the need arise. Halfway across the room, they found a stairwell leading to the second floor. Hankins' flashlight shone up the stairs, his gun still balanced atop his wrist.

Turning his head halfway toward Thompson, he said, "I'm going up."

"Okay. I'll keep at it down here."

"You find anything, let me know immediately."

"Same back at ya," Thompson said. Again he thought about the soggy headset plugged into his ear and hoped the thing had signal enough to get up six flight of stairs.

Hankins headed up the dark stairwell, the steps groaning for a while, but the sound soon getting swallowed by the hammering of rain, which was slanting toward the building, moisture working its way through the loose slats of boarded-up windows.

Thompson watched as Hankins and the light disappeared up the stairs. Shining his flashlight in the direction, he saw scant evidence that Hankins had even been in the building - merely a few wet footprints on the wooden stairs.

Thompson suddenly felt very alone.

Something scrabbled across the floor, just behind him, and he spun around, the flashlight and gun following in a wobbly arc, rainwater spraying off him like he was a wet hound. The beam of light and Glock settle on what appeared to be the same rat again, only this time the rodent stood on its haunches, and seemed to smile - showing its sharp yellow teeth - and almost appeared to be flipping Thompson off with its raised front paws.

Thompson suppressed the urge to squeeze off a round and end the little bastard, and it took no small amount of will to keep him from pulling the trigger - not just because the creature was a handy surrogate for both Hankins and Ames White, but because it might be helpful to end the distraction of the noise the thing was making.

Only, if the flashlights hadn't alerted the transgenic to their positions, a gunshot most assuredly would… and God only knew what Hankins would think if he heard Thompson shooting, moments after the older man headed up the stairs.

Commuting the rat's death sentence to life, Thompson resumed his search of the first floor. He moved carefully, doing his best to stay silent, a couple of times holding the flashlight under an arm as he probed especially shadowy corners with the thermal imager.

"Hankins," he half whispered into the microphone.

No response.

Thompson felt a bead of sweat roll down his cheek, to mingle with the streaks of rain, and he unconsciously found a corner to press himself into as he spoke again, this time louder. _"Hankins."_

This time the response was immediate. "Thompson, would you please shut the hell up? Transgenics from here to Portland can hear you. If you're not in trouble - and it doesn't sound like you are - zip it."

The younger man's face burned as he felt himself blush in the darkness. Seemed that with every shift he spent with Hankins, he found a new reason to hate him. Thompson vowed that once they were out of this building, he would speak up for himself, and finally ask White for a new partner… and, failing that, he would simply transfer out of White's unit altogether.

This whole transgenic affair troubled him. He'd been with the program long enough to know that although these human experiments were considered a threat to national security, the transgenics had been engineered to defend this country, after all. So on some level, Thompson felt like his job was to track down and dispose of what might be considered soldiers of his country. He tried not to see it that way, but sometimes it felt exactly like that - particularly when he let himself think a little too much, or on long sleepless nights during which the hypocrisy of his life crawled into his mind like a waking nightmare.

Angrily wiping the sweat from his eyes, Thompson moved deeper into the blackness, punctuating it with sweeps of the flash. At the back of the cavernous space, he found three offices stretching across the rear wall. Two of the doors were completely gone, and the third - its window long gone - hung from one hinge like a stubborn loose rotted tooth, refusing to fall out of a gaping mouth. Of the six panes of glass that had been the top half of the facing walls of the offices, only one remained, a nasty crack running across it diagonally.

Thompson pulled out the thermal imager and slow-scanned the offices without success. Telling himself he was just being careful, he spun in a steady circle, covering the whole first floor again to make sure nothing had skulked in behind him. Except for a few more rats - and what was either the biggest rat he'd ever seen or a small stray cat - the monitor showed nothing.

This left only one thing to do. Since the thermal imager could not see through wood, that meant he still had to check out the offices one at a time. Letting out his breath slowly, he stepped toward the doorway in the farthest left corner, his pistol and flashlight leading the way. He swept the room quickly once, past the large metal desk, over the peeling wallboard, pas the scattered, smashed glass on the floor to the low half wall to his right.

The room was empty.

And he saw no wet footprints on the floor; even the dusty patina of the desktop seemed undisturbed. Still, Thompson played it carefully as he eased the desk and pointed his gun at the floor behind it.

Nothing.

He let out another breath and felt a little better, and pressed on. His stomach was fluttering, though, and he felt covered in an apprehension as real as his rain-drenched clothes. Middle office, now.

Not only was the door gone off this office, so were the furnishing within: no desk, file cabinets, tables, chairs, nothing but piles of broken glass and fractured wallboard littering the room like the aftermath of a biker party. No transgenics in there either.

Listening intently at the sagging door of the final office, Thompson heard nothing but his own pulse pounding in his ears. Though the whole building smelled of rot and decay - a bouquet emphasized by the night's dampness - the last office seemed to be the nexus of the putrid aroma. The door groaned as he pushed it open.

The desk in this room had been tipped over, its legs sticking out at Thompson, its top facing the back wall. He shoved the door hard, smacking it odd the wall, just in case someone… something… had snugged himself… itself… back there….

Nothing behind it, though. Swinging the other way, Thomson played his light over the floor and saw nothing but broken glass and other rubble. Slowly, he edged toward the side of the desk and shined the beam behind it, and the light caught something, something made not of wood or steel or glass, but flesh….

There, on the floor, lay the skinned carcass of some sort of animal. The body had obviously been there for some time - even the insects had lost interest in it by now - and Thompson couldn't even make out what it was, between the darkness and decay.

From its size, it at first appeared to him to be a very large dog, or maybe a deer that had wandered into the city; but as the beam crept over the prone form, Thompson realized that what he'd just found was neither deer nor dog.

The body on the floor was that of a man.

Not an animal carcass, but a human corpse.

"Hankins," Thompson said, struggling to keep his voice calm. "Got something."

No response.

The smell of the office oppressive now, threatening to send his dinner scurrying back up his throat, he again hissed, "Hankins."

Finally his partner growled in his ear: "What the fuck is it now, Thompson?"

"Got a body here."

Hankins' voice came back gruffly, unimpressed: "The transgenic?"

"I… I don't think so."

"Shit. I knew we couldn't be that fuckin' lucky. Tell me about your catch of the day."

"Office downstairs. Last one on the right. Behind a desk."

Harrumphing, Hankins said, "Jesus, how about a detail that matters? Like is it a man? A woman? Child? What?"

Thompson bit his tongue and kept the obscenity from popping out of his mouth. Discipline, Thompson knew, kept him from being like Hankins, and he wouldn't allow the F word to slip into his reply, no matter how hard it fought to come out. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, he said, "Frankly, I can't tell whether it's male or female… probably adult, and I… I think it's been skinned."

_"__What?"_

"Skinned," Thompson repeated. "It's a dead body… with no skin."

"Goddamn… How fresh _is_ that baby?"

_How the hell should I know?_ Thompson wondered, but he said, "Old - there's not even any bugs. Even the smell's died down… some."

Hankins sighed in Thompson's ear, then said, "Fuck it then. Move on."

"You don't think finding a dead body is a 'detail' that matters?"

"Sure it is - in the long run. In the short term, we're lookin' for a transgenic tonight."

"Maybe this is the victim of a transgenic."

"Maybe - but we'll let the investigative team figure that out, Sage my boy. If you got a kill that ain't fresh, it's not going to do any good now… and it'll wait until we've cleared the building."

_When this becomes somebody's else's job, _Thompson thought.

Yet, while he would hate to admit it, Thompson knew that what Hankins said actually made sense. Slowly pulling the flashlight beam off the corpse, Thompson forced himself to turn away and walk out of the office.

He climbed the stairs to the second floor. Even darker than the first, this level had been subdivided into smaller rooms which lined either side of a central corridor that ran the length of the building, starting at the freight elevator that squatted next to the stairwell.

Though a thick layer of dust still covered the floor, this level seemed cleaner than the last, somehow - no debris, no shattered glass. He was just about to go up the stairs to the third floor, when he decided to take the time to double check. He turned and played the beam over the corridor in front of him.

At first glance he hadn't spotted them, but now - on this second, closer look - he saw the wet footprints, running down the hall but close to the wall at right. Were those Hankins' footprints?

No - his partner was still up on sixth; and anyway, these were smaller than Hankins' big feet would make, not as wide, and longer. And leading to the third door on the left…

Acid churned in Thompson's stomach as he considered what it might be like to go one-on-one with a transgenic. They could vary in strength, in abilities, and defects, depending on what animal DNA had been mixed into their personal genetic soup. Some of them were human, even beautiful.

Others were grotesque combinations of man and beast.

"Hankins," he whispered into the headset.

"Yeah?" The older man's voice sounded resigned and maybe a little pissed off.

"I've got footprints on the second floor. They're wet and they're fresh."

Any skepticism or irritation disappeared from Hankins' voice: "What's the imager say?"

Thompson returned his automatic to its holster and pulled out the imager. Watching the imager drawing blanks as its invisible beam moved up the hallway, he suddenly felt naked without the pistol in his hand, and when a red flare blipped up on the imager's tiny monitor screen, he damn near threw the thing down the hall in his anxiety to reach for his weapon.

"You still with me, kid?" Hankins asked.

In spite of himself, Thompson jumped a little when Hankins' voice made its appearance in his ear.

"Got a hot body," Thompson said, "but its temp is below a hundred."

"Probably not a transgenic."

"Probably not."

"Shit, though - I'm on my way. Hang loose till I get there."

Thompson felt his nerve returning a little as he realized that whatever was in the room ahead probably wasn't a transgenic.

"It's all right, man," he said into the headset. "I'm all over it."

"You sure, kiddo?"

Slipping the imager back into his pocket, Thompson pulled out his Glock; his stomach was still fluttery, but - goddamnit - this was his job, and he would do it. "Yeah, I'm sure."

Hankins' voice came back clearly, all business now. "You let me know what you find. You need me, I'm there in a heartbeat."

"Right," he said, almost feeling affection for the older man - and wasn't _that_ a rarity…

Thompson remained cautious, shining his light unto each room as he moved down the hall. He wasn't checking them carefully - somebody or something was on this floor, and he was moving it right along, accordingly - but the imager had shown nothing, and the quick playing of the beam around the rooms assured him the new gizmo wasn't on the fritz.

Outside the third door on the left, he stopped, calmed his breathing, and once he was steady, he swung through the open door, his arms extended in front of him, the flashlight moving from right to left.

His flashlight sweep was halfway around the room when he heard the whoosh in the blackness to his left. In the grim darkness, he saw a length of two-by-four arcing through the air!

Before he could react, though, the board chased down across his arms and the flashlight and pistol went flying in opposite directions, clattering, clanking. The flashlight went out when it hit the floor somewhere as well - didn't go off, thankfully - winding up vaguely to the left, where it skittered along until it smacked into a wall.

Thompson's vision went white, then black, as pain exploded through his being. He heard the whoosh of the board making a second swing, and tried to move out of the way, but then he heard the snap of his left arm breaking, and grunted once before collapsing to the floor. He felt more than saw his attacker, raising the board for a third strike, this one sure to split his head like a melon and leave Melanie a widow and his child fatherless…

Instinctively rolling toward his attacker, Thompson managed to narrow the distance between them enough so that this time when his opponent swung the board, it whizzed over Thompson's head as he crashed into the attacker's legs and sent the man tumbling across the room. Scrabbling to his left, Thompson used his good hand to feel along the floor for his pistol.

Behind him he could hear his attacker cursing under his breath as he struggled to regain his feet in the near darkness. Thompson fumbled along, seeking his gun, dust rising, and he repressed a sneeze as he crawled forward.

Hankins' voice erupted in his headset. "Find anything yet, kid?"

_Fine, _Thompson though, _just swell,_ but he said nothing, not wanting to give his position away to his unwelcoming host. He continued forward, his good hand searching for the Glock, his bad arm throbbing so badly he wanted to pass out.

"Son of a bitch barge in my house," the attacker muttered thickly behind him in the darkness.

_There!_

Something cool, something metallic - the Glock. His fingers wrapped around it and in one motion, still on his knees, Thompson pivoted, brought up the pistol and fired blindly three times, left, center, right, covering his options.

Thompson heard the soft thwack of at least one round entering the man's body, heard too the man's involuntary grunt, and finally he heard one more sound: the board dropping from his attacker's hand with a thunk, raising dust. The attacker sagged to the floor, gurgled a couple of times, then was silent.

"Jesus, kid, I'm comin'!" Hankins' voice shouted in the headset.

The pistol still in front of him, in his good hand, Thompson got to his feet, shuffled over, found the body in the dark and kicked it a couple of time.

It didn't move.

Into the headset, Thompson calmly said, "It's okay. Got a guy down - need a medic. My arm's broken, but the attacker's down."

Hankins' voice sounded like he was underwater. "I'm comin', kid! I'll be right there, I'm on the fifth floor and headed down." The poor overweight bastard was probably running, which meant he might be about to have a heart attack.

"It's all right, I said," Thompson insisted. "I've got it covered."

Using his foot, giving the darkness gentle kicks, he finally found the flashlight. He picked the thing up, shook it a couple of times, and was surprised when the beam came back on.

Struggling to juggle both the light and pistol in one hand - not put any more pressure on his aching arm than he had to - he made his way over and pointed the light down at his attacker's face.

An old white man with wispy white hair, an open, mostly toothless mouth, and unblinking milky blue eyes stared up at him - no transgenic… just some poor homeless wretch. The old man had been doing nothing more than protecting his squatter's rights in the tiny office… and for this, Thompson had killed him.

The young man's stomach turned acidic again, but this time it wasn't from fear. This time it was something far worse - shame… guilt.

He didn't know how he'd ever get past this. Since joining White's unit, he'd done some things that he knew he'd eventually regret; but, goddamnit, he'd never killed an innocent man - not until tonight.

Shaking his head, hot tears running down his face, mingling with sweat and rain, Thompson knew that tonight would be his last in this stinking job. Fuck Ames White. He and Hankins would finish here, drive back to the office, where they would make out their report, then he'd be done.

He would go home to his wife, take her and the baby in his arms, and tomorrow they would decide how far away they would move to try to put this night behind them. Somewhere, in the post-Pulse world, there had to be a life better than this one.

Then, in Thompson's ear, Hankins screamed.

"Harkins!" Thompson shouted into his headset.

Nothing.

"Harkins, talk to me!"

Still no response.

Changing frequencies, Thompson sent out an emergency call to headquarters for reinforcements, and a general 911 call that would bring both the local cops and an ambulance. Then he switched back and called Hankins' name again.

More silence.

Stripping off his tie, he made a makeshift splint with the flashlight, so the beam seemed to shoot out the end of his fingers; he tied it off, popped a new clip into the Glock, then took off up the stairs, fast as hell.

But not fast enough.

He found Hankins' body on the fourth floor, where it had been dragged from the stairwell - he knew it was Hankins, though there was no way to recognize the naked, bright gleaming redness of blood and exposed muscle and bone as any particular human.

Merely a skinned one.

Very fresh, this time.

And the scream he heard in his ears, now, was his own.

Leanly muscular, with spiky brown hair, icy blue eyes, and the empathy of a shark, Ames White pressed the palm of his left hand against his forehead.

He didn't know whether to laugh or scream, so he did what he always did: he smirked, even in the face of death… he smirked.

White knew Harkins and Thompson were not the sharpest men on his unit; he had even suspected they were inept - but he'd had no idea that they were this lame.

Yet somehow this seemed typical. He was a man with a mission of almost cosmic importance, in a city, a country, that was a shambles, barely worth ruling… though one took one's best option, right? And here he was, with this huge responsibility, surrounded by fools and incompetents. It seemed to White, these days, that he was constantly on the verge of a great victory or a humiliating defeat.

He wondered which column this one would end up in.

The upside of this, if there was one, was that at least he'd be rid of the bungling duo now. Hankins, of course, was dead. White glanced at the skinned body, then looked away again - what a disgusting mess. Thompson, huddled in a corner, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, cradling his broken arm, seemed unable to tear his eyes from his partner's grotesque corpse.

White already knew the kid was washed up, he could see it in his face. And the fact that Thompson had nearly been taken out by a geriatric homeless person only compounded the failure.

The downside of this was the pair's ineffectiveness would reflect on him, and White despised failure, even if his was only one by association. Shaking his head, he turned to his associate, Otto Gottlieb.

Hispanic-looking with his black hair, dark eyes, and olive skin, Gottlieb was not in the know about government agent White's several secret agendas. In fact, Gottlieb's best trait - as far as White was concerned - was that the man did what he was told.

So far, Gottlieb had resisted the urge to grow a brain and star thinking on his own; but White was afraid that couldn't last forever. And when the moment came, he knew he'd miss Gottlieb. He didn't really like the guy - White didn't really like anyone, and prided himself on a superiority devoid of such weakness as compassion and sentimentality - but he had gotten used to having Gottlieb around, and his associate's presence somehow brought him peace.

Even if the man was a moron.

Motioning toward the two partners - one dead, one alive - White said, "Get him out of here, Otto. He disgusts me. Get him out."

"The body? Shouldn't we wait for -"

"No. That's evidence. Thompson, I mean. Lose him."

Gottlieb, finally getting it, nodded and moved to the other agent. Helping Thompson to his feat, Gottlieb drew the blanket around the man's shoulders and led him toward the door.

When they neared White, Thompson looked at his boss with golf-ball eyes and said, "That transgenic skinned him so fast - so fucking fast. He _skinned_ him."

"You screwed up. This was an unacceptable loss."

Now Thompson's eyes tightened and tears began to trickle. "I tried to get to him in time… I tried to help… I…"

White smirked again, and shook his head slowly. "You just don't get it, do you?"

A wide-eyed blank look settled on Thompson's face.

"I'm not talking about Hankins. This transgenic saved me the troubled of firing his fat ass."

"You said… it was an unacceptable… loss…"

"And it is. The transgenic got the thermal imager." White grabbed the front of Thompson's wet raincoat. "And how long do you suppose it'll be before they figure out what it is, and what it's for?"

White released the young agent's coat. Thompson said nothing, his head turning back to Hankins on the floor. His lower lip trembled as he said, "You… you're a monster."

"No. They're the monsters - and you're fired. Get him out of here, Otto."

Gottlieb hauled him away.

Alone but for the body, White slammed his fist into a concrete wall, leaving a fist-sized dent.

To the glistening scarlet corpse, White said, "I can't believe you let a goddamn transgenic get hold of a thermal imager."

But Hankins said nothing - he just grinned stupidly back at his boss, his teeth huge in the raw red pop-eyed mask of his face.

XX-XX-XX

I am copying the chapters of the original physical book and I only wear the first one, so the updates will be totally random and possibly very spaced, because I have to study for my oppositions.

I hope you like it and that you buy the book.


	2. Chapter two: Freak nation

Here we have the second chapter of Max Allan Collins book. If you can buy it and support the author.

None of these characters or stories belong to me and I strongly recommend that you buy the book.

Enjoy.

XX-XX-XX

**Chapter two: Freak nation**

**Jam Pony messenger service, 11:50 P.M.**

**Friday, may 7, 2021**

Her heart jackhammering, the transgenic the public knew only as 452 prepared to step out of Jam Pony into a cool night smeared red and blue by the lights of police cars. She and a group of her closest friends - her brother and sisters in the fight to be free - appeared to be in custody, about to be escorted by what seemed to be cadre of SWAT officers.

Her long black hair hung loose and her black shirt and snug slacks were smudged with dirt - the aftermath of a vicious round of hand-to-hand combat with a hit squad attached to Ames White. But 452 - Max to her friends - was still unbowed, and not even bloodied.

Nonetheless, blood could still flow - and some already had.

The hostage situation at Jam Pony had started by accident - literally. Earlier, before sundown, the lizardfish transgenic Mole - brave but impulsive - and her towering friend Joshua - who the tabloids had termed a "dog boy" - had just picked up two transgenics headed for Terminal City, the ten square blocks of biochemical wasteland where the societal outcast spawned by the gene-manipulating Manticore project had taken up residence. The transgenic squartters could survive behind the fences, despite chemical and biotech spills, where everyday humans would get sick and die; the transgenics - whether beautiful physical specimens like Max or Alec, or genetic "freaks" like the lizard man and dog boy - had been immunized against such poisons… one nice thing Manticore had done for theme, anyway.

Accompanied by a teenage boy named Dalton, the young woman, Gem - an X5 - was pregnant and about to pop, so Mole was in a hurry to get her to the shabby sanctuary that was Terminal City. They had made it less than two blocks when a junk-piled truck backed into their path and what should have been a minor, bumper-bumping accident turned into a disaster.

Forced to make a run for it when a mutant-hating mob gathered, Mole, Joshua, and the two new arrivals had sought refuge at the bike messenger service where Max and two other transgenics, Alec and CeCe, worked. But the cops were already on their heels, and a full-scale hostage crisis quickly developed. Alec and CeCe had posed as hostages along with the ordinaries who became prisoners, though the handsome, usually self-centered Alec eventually outted him-self as a transgenic, by coming to Max's aid.

At first Max had not been on the scene, and lizard-man Mole had terrified her friends; when she arrived, Max took over and before long the hostages realized that their "captors" were faced with the same challenge - staying alive.

Not so long ago, Max and the police department negotiator, Detective Ramon Clemente, had reached an accord that provided for trading half the hostages for a getaway van. Clemente's rooftop SWAT team had backed off, as promised, but Ames White - that CIA agent with an antitransgenic agenda - had unleashed his own hidden snipers.

Max and company did not make it to the van. If Logan Cale hadn't jumped in on their side, blasting away with his own weapon, driving the snipers back, Max and her group might never have made it into the building again. But they did, hustling back into Jam Pony, after taking a casualty in the cross fire - CeCe - who within moments had become a fatality.

Even with such a terrible loss, they had survived much in this single day… but they still had a long way to go before they would be anything like safe. If just one cop out there notice that the escorts in SWAT gear were not who they were supposed to be, the bloodbath would begin again.

If so, if she and Logan Cale died, at least they'd die together.

She loved this man, who once again was laying his life on the line for her and her cause - to protect him, she had told him she no longer love him, and even tried to convince herself she could live without Logan Cale. But in the glare of the bright lights - courtesy of the cops and the media - she knew that wasn't true.

Logan Cale - tall, blue-eyed, with that spiky blond-brown hair and shy smile… how she had longed to kiss him and tell him how she truly felt. But that was impossible now - that bitch Renfro, at Manticore, had made certain of that.

_Even with Manticore burned to the ground, the mad scientist who had created her and Alec and Joshua and so many other troubled souls were still fucking with her life - that oh so specific virus that the late unlamented Renfro had infected Max with still had no known cure, and if she touched Logan, if their flesh met in any way, well, she knew she would be the death of him._

Yet despite all the trouble she had caused him, the heartache she'd brought him, Logan had come to her aid again, hadn't he? Firing up at the snipers, helping Mole to keep the killers at bay while the others hightailed it back into the building. He even stayed by her side, providing cover fire as she dragged CeCe back inside as well.

The standoff had gone on from there, lasting until well into the evening, when White had finally brought in his SWAT-geared hit team. Max smiled at the thought. The hit team had been tough, really tough; but she and her brothers and sisters - and even some of the hostages, who were on the transgenics side by now - had taken the suckers down.

Max had worked hard not to take any lives. Joshua, face-to-face with Ames White - a man who had murdered someone dear to the normally gentle giant - had nearly broken the bastard in two. But Max knew how important it was _not _to kill - not to feed the media frenzy, fueled by White and others, that had convinced so much of the public that the transgenics were monsters, inhuman beasts worthy only of slaughter.

Now they had the opportunity to escape into the night and maybe, for a while anyway, be safe. Just this one last gauntlet to pass through…

Hiding within the bulky uniform of one of White's SWAT team members, his head covered by a Kevlar helmet, his face behind tinted goggles, Logan shoved the front door open and shouted, "Weapons down! Hold your fire. Team coming out."

Then Logan had led the way out into the cool night air. The crowd behind the barricades pushed forward for a better look, their hatred a hot, oppressive slap riding the wind of their angry shouts: _"Death to the freaks!" "Kill 'em all!"_

Max wondered if they would ever be able to make people, those people, understand that all the transgenics desire was a peaceful, quiet life. The "freaks" just wanted to fit in like everybody else, and not be feared for - or judged by - their appearance.

Wasn't that what America was supposed to be about? She and her transgenic clan had been born in the USA, even if it was in a test tube, where they'd been genetically designed to defend this country - the very one that now seemed to want only their extinction - from the rabble on the street to the suits in high places.

With Logan and the others moving into the street, the cops suddenly seemed more interested in containing the crowd than dealing with the federal SWAT team. They backed out of the way as Logan led the parade toward the rear of a waiting police van.

Also dressed for SWAT team duty, complete with the helmet and goggles, Alec held a handcuffed Max by the arm while that lanky goofball, Sketchy - a really unlikely SWAT team member - escorted the cuffed Mole and Joshua. The lizardfish Mole still puffed defiantly on his ever present cigar, while Joshua with his long brown hair and soulful canine-tinged features, looked more like a beaten puppy as Sketchy led him to the van.

"Federal agents," Logan announced, his voice cool and authoritative. "I need you to move back. "I need you to move back. Step away. We may have a biohazard here, people… Make a hole!"

All of the cops - except Clemente, the intelligent, no-nonsense detective who'd served as negotiator during most of the siege, only to be usurped by Ames White - stepped back.

Clemente, a slender, well-chiseled African-American in his forties, looked like he probably felt much older now; but his brown eyes were still alert, and he obviously wanted to know what was happening. He wore a rumpled gray sport coat over a Kevlar vest, blue tie, and white shirt, his gold shield dangling from a necklace. As they passed, he said nothing, his pistol still in his hands, the barrel pointed toward the ground.

Logan turned to him. "Agent White wants your people in there to secure the crime scene, ASAP."

Clemente made no move, standing with wide eyes and perhaps just a hint of skepticism as Logan yanked open the van's rear door. Alec loaded Max in, then Sketchy shoved Mole and Joshua un and in. Alec climbed into the van with the prisoners while Logan, businesslike, said, "We're going to have to commandeer this ambulance."

Sketchy peeled off to help ease Gem - the X5 who'd given birth during the siege - and her new baby into the ambulance parked next to the van. Dalton, the short blond male X5 who'd been traveling with Gem, climbed aboard as well. Original Cindy - the beautiful African-American bike messenger who was Max's best friend in Seattle - followed suit.

Logan turned back to Clemente and said, with the faintest hint of sarcasm in his voice, "Agent White is not a man who likes to be kept waiting."

The driver of the ambulance slowly climbed down from his seat, and Sketchy stepped into the man's space. "We'll take over from here," Sketch said, playing his macho SWAT role to the hilt. "Unless you wanna buy yourself a six-hour decontamination hose-down."

The driver wanted none of that, and backed off, while Sketchy climbed behind the wheel of the ambulance. Not waiting for Clemente to move, Logan slammed the door of the police van and jumped into the driver's seat.

Inside, Max and the others slipped the unfastened cuff off as Logan started the vehicle.

"Move the barricades," he shouted through the windshield, waving for the officers in front of the van to clear the long sawhorses that kept the crowd back. The headlights of the van and the ambulance painted the mob a ghostly white.

With the crowd still screaming, _"Kill the freaks," _Logan shifted into gear and let the vehicle roll gently forward.

Behind him, Max encouraged this approach, saying, "Nice and easy."

The van moved through the crowd to scream of _"Monsters!" _and _"Kill 'em now!"_

Looking out the back window, Max watched Clemente melt into the crowd, then the crows melt into the night, as the two vehicle rolled off into the darkness. Tension seemed to palpably dissipate - the crisis was over.

Finally, when Max saw no one following them except the ambulance with the others, she let out a long sigh of relief. "We're clear."

The van filled with whoops and cheers as Joshua and Mole knocked fists.

"Now _that's _what I'm talkin' about!" Mole yelled.

"It's all good," said Alex, a wide smile breaking his normally laid-back demeanor.

Grinning into the rearview mirror, Logan said, "Just for the record, that girl was kickin' your ass."

Logan was referring to a particularly bulked-up female fighter on Ames White's hit squad, back at Jam Pony.

Alec's smile tightened a fraction. "I had her. I was just setin' her up."

Everyone laughed.

Keeping her voice low and even, knowing they weren't really in the clear yet, Max said, "All right, head for Terminal City."

Something nagged at Clemente - this just didn't _feel_ right - and when he entered Jam Pony it was with gun drawn and both arms extended, his flashlight in his left hand, his pistol in his right.

Behind him, four members of SWAT team - the PD's men, not White's - fell into a loose line and then spread out once they were inside the door. The power was still out and the place was bathed in eerie shadows, strangely quiet after the tension of the day. It was almost as if the building needed a rest too…

Coming around a corner, Clemente saw three people sitting on a bench, apparently just waiting for the police to enter. Nearest him sat a young woman of perhaps twenty, her short brown hair tied into two tiny pigtails. She wore a tan hooded pullover and khakis.

Next to her sat a taller, muscular, nerdy guy with black-rimmed glasses, a blond flattop, wearing a blue pullover short-sleeve shirt and jeans. Beyond him, a tiny bald guy, also in his early twenties, wore a plaid flannel shirt and jeans. They all seemed calm.

Very damn calm, for just-released hostages.

"Anyone hurt?" Clemente asked, shining his flashlight toward them, but not into their eyes.

"No," the young woman said, "We're okay… but you better go look upstairs."

Was there something… _mocking _in her voice?

Slowly, all his attention focused on the doorway ahead, Clemente led the way up the stairs. On the landing, he hesitated for only a second before swinging through the door with his pistol outstretched. Behind him, the SWAT team fanned out into the room.

It was immediately obvious that ferocious battle had taken place up here. Nearly every pane of glass in the windows and in the top half of the wall that separated the warehouse space from the office space lay in shards on the dusty floor. Shelves had been tipped over, furniture broken - the place was a shambles.

Playing his light around the room, Clemente settle his beam first on a muscular redheaded woman lashed to a cement support. She had been gagged and taped to the pillar with packaging tape, as if waiting delivery, perhaps by one of the bike messengers.

Swinging father around, Clemente's light fell on a trio in their underware -they'd been stripped of their uniforms and lashed to another pillar. They too had been trussed up and gagged with packing tape.

Clemente realized at once that this meant the SWAT team members who'd seemingly hauled off 452 and the rest were impostors, wearing the uniforms of the SWAT team they'd defeated. And he knew he should spring into action, but…

He couldn't keep a wide smile from spreading across his face.

"Special Agent in Charge White," Clemente said, in mock good humor.

The normally smug and very trussed-up government man, Ames White, growled something that came out garbled because of the packing-tape gag. He had not been stripped of his clothes - just his dignity.

"What was that?" Clemente asked, as if actually understanding the agent's muffled outraged words from beneath the packing tape. "The transgenics tied you up and took your uniforms?"

Another growl erupted from the agent as he fought against the tape that bound him.

The detective chuckled and his grin grew even wider. "No way!"

White's eyes went wide with anger and he yelled something - probably obscene - that was again swallowed by the tape.

As if making sure he was understanding White correctly, Clemente asked, "And you want me to go after them?"

The NSA agent's cold stare carried every ounce of anger and hatred that the tape wouldn't allow him to utter.

"Now that's a good idea," Clemente said as he rose. He went to the door with his men on his tail, none of them making any move to untie White or his cronies.

As he stepped into the hall, the detective heard another muffled scream from White. It sounded quite a bit like, "Son of a bitch," even with the tape over the man's mouth. Clemente allowed himself to enjoy the moment, then took off at run for his car.

White wasn't the only one who'd been fooled by the transgenics, and Clemente - the pleasure of seeing the arrogant White hung out to dry receding in his mind as his duty kicked in - wasn't going to let this slide. Now he would catch the transgenics, and succeed where White had screwed up.

And let Ames White stare into Clemente's smug smile, for a change.

The crew had lapsed into silence; the tension of the long day finally seemed to be leaking out of them, and they all looked beat. Max was proud of her family, her friends. This day could have ended as the bloodbath Ames White had sought, and the transgenics' cause irrevocably hurt, had anyone beside CeCe - one of their own - been killed or injured.

Not that Max and the others didn't hurt because of the loss of their sister; but had any of the "ordinaries" died, well, that would have been the end of her hope of getting the humans to accept them as equals. She was just settling down to rest herself, in the back of the van, when she heard the first siren.

She looked out the rear window at the same moment Logan spotted the flashing lights in his mirror.

"We've got company," he announced.

Clemente's voice came to them over a loudspeaker from the lead car. _"Stop your vehicles now or you will be fired upon!"_

Logan ignored him and kept driving.

Again Clemente's voice came over the loudspeaker: _"Pull over now or we will use deadly force to stop you."_

Looking out the windshield, Max said, "Don't stop - keep moving."

Not slowing, Logan kept the van going straight down the middle of the street, Sketchy at the wheel of the ambulance behind him, following Logan's lead, the police cars close behind, but none of them moving forward to try and block their path.

To Max, the trip to Terminal City seemed as though it took hours, not minutes. But finally they approached the locked gate of the no-man's-land the transgenics had claimed for themselves, signs proclaiming, NO TRESPASSING. IT IS A FELONY TO PASS THIS POINT, and BIOHAZARD. UNSAFE FOR HUMAN OCCUPANCY.

"Go straight through," Max said, almost casually.

Logan didn't hesitate in following her instructions - he pressed down steadily on the accelerator and slowly the van gained momentum as it neared the gate.

"Hold on," he advised, and everyone in the van tried to burrow in for the impact.

They slammed crunchingly through, the ambulance roaring in after them, right in their back bumper, police cars in a long line behind them. Inside the van, they rocked with the impact, then settled as they sped into the makeshift compound.

"Right, left, then straight up the ramp," Max said.

Driving like a lifelong racer, Logan followed her orders.

As they accelerated up the incline, Max said, "Straight through the building."

Again Logan complied, steering through the maze of concrete pillars as fast as was possible in the unwieldy van. Finally, they reached a barricade of junk that not only prevented them from moving forward, but cut them off to the left and right as well.

"End of the line," Logan declared as he braked the van to a stop.

Sketchy stopped the ambulance next to the van, and the police cars quickly formed a semicircle behind them to keep Max and crew form turning around and making a break for it. The light bars atop the police cars painted the scene red, blue, and shades or purple where the two colors met. Pouring out of their cars, twenty or so officers drew their guns, and Clemente's voice once again came over a loudspeaker: _"Throw down your weapons and let me see your hands. Now!"_

Mole spun angrily toward Max. "What's your plan _now_?"

_"__Show me your hands," _Clemente said over the speaker.

Looking a little panicked, and sounding like a small boy and not a massive dog of a man, Joshua asked plaintively, "Max…?"

_"__Throw your weapons out now!"_

Max looked from face to face, seeing defeat, even despair, but she was unwilling to accept either.

She made her decision. "You heard the man."

"Well," Mole said, "this sucks."

Logan dropped his pistol through the open driver's side window and it hit the concrete floor with a dull smack.

"I fought the law and the law won," Alec said, wry resignation in his voice.

Moving to the back door and opening it a crack, Max dropped out Alec's weapon and it clattered to the concrete.

_"__Step out of the van with your hands up!"_

Original Cindy, in her SWAT team drag, dropped her gun and Sketchy's gun out the back of the ambulance as well.

Max came out first, followed by Mole; then came Cindy, without her helmet and goggles; Gem and her new baby; Sketchy - also without his SWAT headgear - and finally young Dalton exited the ambulance.

As Clemente and his men kept their guns trained on the transgenics, Max kicked a couple of the rifles even farther away so the cops wouldn't think they were up to something. Joshua helped Alec down, Alec's shoulder still giving him trouble from a bullet he'd taken early in the siege. Logan came out the driver's side and marched to the back of the van to join the others.

_"__Step away from the vehicles!" _Clemente commanded. _"On your knees - hands on top of your heads!"_

Sketchy dropped first, as if suddenly taken by the urge to pray, his hands shooting to the top of his head. Slowly, the others fell in line as well - Mole, then Alec, Logan, Original Cindy, Dalton, and Gem - all on their knees in defeat, all of them putting their hands on their heads, except Gem, who held her baby.

All but Max.

Max remained standing, her hands dangling at her sides. She kept her face calm, passive, showing neither anger nor deception. And yet her very failure to follow orders made her pillar of defiance.

"On your knees," Clemente yelled, no longer on the loudspeaker.

Instead, Max took two tentative steps forward.

"Do it, now!"

Ignoring the instruction, Max walked forward a few more steps, then stopped just a few feet from the police, their headlights bathing her and her friends in bright white light.

"452?" Clemente asked, frowning. That was what she had told the cop to call her when they'd been negotiating the hostage crisis.

But why hide any longer?

She said, "You can call me Max."

He drew a breath. Then he said, "I think you should get on the ground."

Max's face remained placid, "I think you should probably go."

Now Clemente's expression hardened. "I'm not going to tell _you_ again."

She gave him the tiniest of shrugs. "I'm not going to tell _you _again."

Luke and Dix - two of the transgenics that had started the settlement within the fences of the dead industrial park that was now Terminal City - stepped out of the shadows, pumping shotguns.

In front of Max, the officers cocked their own guns and drew beads on the transgenics.

Then, from the darkness, other armed transgenics emerged on nearby rooftops and on either flank of the policemen. The eerie, half-lit forms of these feared freaks could only give the police pause… and there were more and more of the figures…

The only escape route for the cops was to their rear. And by the time all the transgenics made their appearance known, over one hundred of them had the officers in their crosshairs.

Max could see on Clemente's face the realization that his forces were hopelessly outgunned.

"You can try arrest us all," she suggested affably, her arms widening to include the whole group, "but you guys might want to call it a night… and go have a beer."

Clemente needed only a second to make up his mind.

"Back it up! Outside the fence, people. Let's go, move it back!"

The officers looked from the transgenics to their leader, then started looking at one another.

"Now!" Clemente yelled.

Cops began holstering their weapons, jumping into cars, and soon police cruisers were moving in every direction as they tried to find the fastest way out of Terminal City. As the long line of cars broke and headed for the gate, Clemente watched them for a moment, then gingerly holstered his pistol and turned toward Max. Walking slowly, he crossed the short distance to her.

Barely a foot from her, he said, "You kept today from turning into a bloodbath… and I respect that…"

She gave him a slight nod. "You held up your end too."

The detective's face remained a solemn mask. "… but you haven't won anything. This is going to get ugly… and it's way over my head now. These people's live depend on the decisions you make next."

Their eyes locked.

He went on: "And I pray you make the right ones…"

She stared at him, waiting.

"… Max."

She was unprepared for the swell of pride she got when he said her name. Why couldn't more of the "ordinaries" be like this one? Yes, they were adversaries - those lines had been drawn long ago. But in the tone of that one syllable, "Max," she could tell they were not enemies.

Turning on his heel, Clemente got into his car, dropped it into reverse, and backed out of the building toward the gate of Terminal City.

The lights of the car weren't even out of sight before Mole - ever the hotheaded activist - went to work. "Escape and evade. We divide into teams, pick a compass point, and go to ground."

Max surprised even herself when the words jumped out of her mouth: _"No… _We stay here."

Mole spun to face her, his harsh-sounding voice even harsher than usual. "In a couple of hours that perimeter'll be totally locked down… tanks, National Guard, and every cop within a hundred miles."

Stepping forward, Dix - a transgenic with a face like a pile of lumpy mashed potatoes and a half-assed gogglecummonocle strapped to his one good eye - said, "We'll be digging our own grave."

"Mole's right," said Luke, a transgenic with a cue ball for a head, red bags under his black eyes, and huge flaps over his tiny ears. "We move now, they won't be able to catch us all."

"Where are you going to go?" Max asked, then turning her attention to the misfit throng, she added, "Look - I can't stop anyone from leaving. But I'm through running and hiding and being afraid." Making her pint with a forceful pirouette, she said, "I'm not gonna live like that anymore. Aren't you tired of living in darkness?"

She saw a few nods and heard a few scattered mumbles of agreement.

"Don't you want to feel the sun on your face? Don't you want to have a place of your own? A place where you can walk down the street without being afraid?"

The noises of agreement grew louder.

"They made us and they trained us to be soldiers… to defend this country. It's time they face us and take responsibility for us instead of trying to sweep us away like garbage. We were made in America. And we aren't going anywhere."

Original Cindy, nodding, said, "Speak your word."

Max looked at her for a split second, loving her sister, who had been with her since the very beginning; then she went on: "They call us freaks? Well, okay. Today… I'm proud to be a freak. And today, we're gonna make our stand, right here."

Looking around her, she studied the faces, so many faces, of those she knew and those she didn't know, but in her heart they were all her family. _"Who's with me?"_ Calmly, Max raised a fist in the air.

Joshua's fist shot up instantly and Original Cindy's and Logan's and Alec's and one by one the others, even Dix and Luke. This was a solidarity none of them had ever known, not even back at Manticore. They were together, proud and defiant. Finally, only Mole stood alone, arms at his sides.

Max studied the lizard-faced commando. As she watched him gazing from face to face, she could see he felt it too - brotherhood was in the air. Sisterhood too.

Slowly, his first rose in the air and something like a grin appeared on that lizard puss. "Aw, what the hell…."

A smile broke across Original Cindy's face; few smiles on the planet were brighter. "Right on!"

Feeling hope flood through her system like adrenaline, Max thought of the ancient Chinese philosopher, Lao Tze, who said, "A journey of thousand miles begins with a single step."

She hoped they were getting off on the right foot.

For the next forty-eight hours the transgenics fortified their position inside and kept a careful eye on the police and National Guard outside, who - true to Mole's prediction - had locked down the perimeter of Terminal City. Already a chain of command seemed to be establishing itself. Alec and Mole oversaw the upgrade in security, and Dix and Luke monitored the media - whose cameras gave them a nice look at the National Guard and police forces outside the fence. Joshua appointed himself Max's personal bodyguard, while Logan and Max pored over strategies for their next step.

It was late the second night when Dix called them into the transgenics' makeshift media center. A dozen monitors were built into a pyramid, with four of their brethren watching them, sifting through the information from the various sources both local and national. Off to the left another baker's dozen of monitors kept track of the security system the transgenics had installed and been upgrading since they first settled in the restricted area.

"What's going on?" Max asked.

Dix pointed to a monitor in the third row; and an X5, a redheaded young woman about Max's age, pointed a remote that raised the volume.

On the screen, a reporter stood in front of Jam Pony, Normal standing next to the man. "But about your captors… what are these creatures like? Is it true you delivered a transgenic baby?"

Normal beamed. He couldn't have been any happier if he'd been the father himself. "I did, and a beautiful, bouncing baby girl she is."

The reporter asked, "So - you're saying they're not all monster, then?"

"Monsters?" Normal asked with a shake of his head, as if such a thought were foreign to him. "No more than you or me."

And with that he turned away and swept the sidewalk in front of Jam Pony. When he saw two of his riders not moving fast enough, he said, "Hey, Sparky - not a country club, get moving. Bip bip bip!"

The two slackers headed off in opposite directions, each trying to get as far away from Normal as fast as they could.

Max turned to Logan. "What do you make of that?"

Grinning, Logan said, "Looks like you've got another convert."

With a perplexed look, Max asked, "Normal?"

Logan shrugged. "Could be helpful to have another friend on the outside."

She nodded. "Can't ever hurt to have another friend." Turning to Dix, she said, "Anything else?"

He shook his mashed-potato head. "You should get some rest, Max"

A yawn escaped from her. "Maybe you're right." She and Logan, as well as most of the rest of them, hadn't slept for at least the last two days. A nap wouldn't hurt her, and she knew Logan needed the rest even more than she. "Can you get somebody to wake us at dawn?"

Dix nodded. "Take my room," he said, pointing to a door off to the right.

She took a few steps then turned back to Logan. "You comin'?"

A small smile appeared and he said, "Yeah."

Dix's room was a far cry from the penthouse apartment where not so long ago Logan had lived, or even Max's condemned-building crib, for that matter; but it would do, for tonight anyway. About as big as a good-sizes bathroom and illuminated by a single lightbulb dangling from a cord, it had an old double mattress on the floor in one corner, some bookshelves with a few volumes on the opposite wall to the left, a small round table near them with two chairs, and in the front left corner - below some steam pipes that Logan hat to duck beneath - an old leather recliner that had been salvaged from God knew where.

"You take the bed," Max said. "I'll take this." She patted the recliner.

"No," Logan said. "You take the bed…."

She gave him a sharp look. "When was the last time you slept?"

He shrugged, but said, "Can't you let me be a gentleman about it?"

She wagged a finger at him. "Who's a genetically enhanced killing machine that can go days without sleep?"

"You are," he said hopelessly.

She knew she had him now.

Without any more argument, he spilled into the bed, took off his glasses, and instantly fell asleep. He hadn't even bothered to take off the exoskeleton - the device affixed to the lower half of him that allowed him to walk. His wheelchair, the contraption he'd spent so much time in the last two years, lay in the pile of rubble that had been his apartment before White's people trashed it.

Logan Cale was, after all, Eyes Only - the cyber freedom fighter, a terrorist to the authorities, an identity secret to most (but not Max). Scion of a wealthy family, Logan used his inherited money to help those less fortunate than himself - like the transgenics; these efforts had led to the bullets that had put him into a wheelchair.

Plopping onto the recliner, Max kicked back and listened as Logan started to snore softly. She couldn't think of a prettier sound. Pulling the string on the light and grinning, she looked over at this man who she loved and adored, asleep in the darkness. "I love you", she said quietly.

He snorted a snore in response, and Max suddenly realized this was what they all wanted, what they were all fighting for - just a little peace and quiet in this big, noisy world.

Logan's snoring grew louder, and Max decided that even peace without quiet was good enough for her. Closing her eyes, she drifted off in a cloud of hope that carried over into sweet dreams.

Which, when so many of her days were waking nightmares, was one small blessing, anyway.

XX-XX-XX

I'm copying the chapters of the original physical book and I only have a little time, so the updates will be totally random and possibly very spaced, because I have to study for my oppositions.

I hope you like it and that you buy the book.


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